And yet there was deception, she was forced to remind herself; he was married. She had seen his son, remembered his little bare feet which she had wanted to touch. If she was free of guilt in this respect she was not free of longing. She imagined him, at the weekends, going home to a friendly house, being met by excited children perhaps, whereas she, on her own, was often puzzled by her solitude. Strange to feel so solitary when her life was so full. Surely the time for such feeling had been before she met him, when she was an untouched observer of other people’s follies, and of her own. How diligently she had carried out her tasks, her duties, even her marital duties; none had touched her. Now she was aware of a stream of feeling biding its time until it chose to overflow, if not for Simon’s benefit then for another’s. She would have to marry again, she saw, in order to preserve this love affair in its strange entirety. Her future husband would benefit from her lack of curiosity about him, for she did not expect ever to love again. Perhaps, she reflected, she wanted the world’s approval. Clandestinity, the clandestinity she cherished, had its drawbacks.
But to have to get to know another man, to learn about him with the same fascinated scrutiny, was somehow out of the question. That scrutiny was in the present circumstances more often than not frustrated. She felt an immense and inconvenient curiosity about his life at home, how it was conducted. There was nothing prurient about this. She wanted to know what the rooms of his house were like, what food they ate, whether his parents were still alive. At this point she was conscious of a craven gratitude to her own parents for being unavailable for comparison. She was sure that in any contest his parents would feature as shining and forthright characters, while her own would be imprinted with signs of venality, whereas in fact they had been a pleasant-looking couple before their decline. Nevertheless heredity created dispositions, expectations, and hers had always erred on the side of watchfulness, of wariness. Unable or unwilling to trust, she had conducted her life prudently. She could see no such signs in Simon. She had fallen in love with her exact opposite, one whose approach was, by blessed design, ludic. She had him to thank for an insight to which she had never before been a party. If this were a game it was at least a game in which they were both engaged.
Simon, who woke as easily as he slept, stretched out a hand for his watch, looked at it briefly, said ‘Crikey,’ then settled back, his arms above his head. She loved to look at him in such moments, which were rare, to admire his beauty, while at the same time adopting a neutral, even critical expression. In a moment, she knew, he would be ready to resume his ordinary life. Except that he did not seem anxious to move, or even to turn to her, to nestle into her neck. She missed that gesture, his unique acknowledgement of her role in a life she could hardly imagine, but would do nothing to solicit it. She sensed an absence in him, wondered if her bunch of flowers had made him irritable, as if she had offered a clumsy tribute in lieu of her usual tact. This would need care. At the same time she thought of her quiche, which they were clearly not going to eat. She would dispose of it without a word, take it home again. This struck her as an unwelcome departure from the norm. She reached over him for his watch, saw with a start that it was after half-past three, that she must have dozed herself, although she was usually preternaturally alert. He put an arm round her, pressed her shoulder briefly, then swung his legs over the side of the bed, and sat there, his head lowered.
‘What is it?’ she said. ‘Is something wrong?’
He turned to face her, a puzzled smile on his face. ‘Shall we have some tea?’ he said. ‘You don’t have to rush off, do you?’ And he got up, stood in the middle of the floor, brooding.
‘Tea,’ she said. ‘What a good idea. You get dressed. Unless …?’
‘Yes, I’d better get dressed,’ he agreed. ‘Do you want to go first? In the bathroom, I mean.’
‘Just give me a minute. Then I’ll be in the kitchen.’
In the kitchen she bundled both flowers and food into her Selfridges bag, stowed it in the hall behind her briefcase, went back and made the tea, aware of clothes pulled on too hastily, aware of disorder, of alarm. She sat down, poured herself a cup of tea, drank it too quickly, choked, wiped her mouth, and took her slopped saucer to the sink. Did he mean her to stay? The urgency of the early afternoon had leaked away, into this interval for which there was no precedent. She regretted their normal recovery, hated the bad light in this north-facing kitchen, promised herself that she would cancel the rest of the day, would go straight home, if that was what he wanted her to do. Yet he was in no hurry, it seemed, was not checking his answering service, was, if she could judge it correctly, making one single muffled call. She had no idea how to behave in these changed circumstances, willed her features to remain grave, attentive, as if she were to hear bad news, and would have to deal with it correctly. I should have brought a cake, she thought, or some biscuits; he must be hungry by now.
There was something in his voice on the telephone, which she could only just hear, that disturbed her: it was deliberately low, informal, as if he were speaking to someone he knew so well that there was no need for introductory remarks. She knew, with a lover’s fatal instinct, that he was talking to his wife and that this tone was self-explanatory. Yet when he came into the kitchen he was smiling with disarming courtesy, the badge of his kind. She summoned up the same expression, looked at him pleasantly, and poured him a cup of tea.
‘You’re not going to the office this afternoon?’ she asked.
‘No, I’m going to Oxford. I’ve taken a few days’ leave.’
‘Oh?’
He sat down. ‘The thing is, Mary’s not too well.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry. What’s wrong?’
‘I don’t know exactly. Something female that I’m thought not to know about. She’s bleeding,’ he said, his smile faltering for an instant.
‘That could be nothing. Break-through bleeding, it’s called.’ The thought struck her. ‘Is she pregnant?’
‘She thought she was, and then this started.’
‘What does the doctor say?’
‘Oh, he’s an old friend. He doesn’t seem to be worried.’ He looked at her. ‘Do you know about these things?’
‘Not really. I seem to have everything still in place. And I’ve never been pregnant.’
‘How have you managed that?’
‘I’m not at all sure. Maybe I can’t have children.’
All at once, and for all time, she knew that this was true, and that she had never faced the truth before, had never needed to. The idea of having a child by Jonathan had been out of the question. He was such a child himself that he had never envisaged fatherhood, and had not paid enough attention to his wife to wonder whether she might also be a potential mother. She had at the time been grateful for this, as if he were expendable. Now she began to wonder, thought of the child Fergus, of her longing to clasp his foot, to beguile him, to win him over. She had thought the reason for this was simple: she loved his father. Now she was brought up against the fact that Fergus had a mother, that his mother was still fertile. As she was not.
She was sensible enough to know that this was still a good thing, but grieved to realize that there was no future in her way of life. And, at her age, no present either, for with a child one had a hold on life that was not within her grasp. Motherhood made women into complacent tigers, whereas she could only admire, enquire. She had always been a recipient for confidences, but latterly had been a recipient for confidences about her friends’ children. Was this why she avoided them? Having nothing of the same nature to offer in exchange had left her at a loss. She had blamed the friends’ tactlessness, had been offended by their lack of reciprocal interest in her life, her activities. Now she wondered if they had sensed her condition, had seen in her slight taut body and her discreet and careful clothes a singularity that they had been spared. She had thought she had detected a certain irritation, a certain resentment at her appearance. What she had taken for resentment was in fact con
tempt. You are not one of us, said their eyes; you do not slop around untidily, push your hair back behind your ears, dress in the first thing that comes to hand. You do not shop for cornflakes, fish fingers, baked beans. You will not get fat. You do not take family holidays, the car loaded with junk. You only carry a briefcase, look astonishingly young, yet you must be what? getting on, anyway. Too late for you, then. You will just have to make do with the rest of your life, with only yourself for company. And that husband of yours, he was a disappointment too, wasn’t he? So tell me, which one of you was unable, no, incapable? You don’t mind my asking, do you? After all we are old friends.
This conversation had only taken place once, but it had marked her. She had avoided the erstwhile friend after that, had even remarked to Beatrice on how terrible poor Alexandra had looked, remembering her as a neat schoolgirl with a ponytail, suddenly wondering whether their friendship had always been so slight, or whether it had been broken off all at once. She had been momentarily proud of her appearance, had dressed even more carefully, and yet the incident continued to rankle until time had finally taken care of it. And now it appeared that Mary may have been pregnant: at least that was Simon’s natural assumption. Her mind shied away from the implications of this, her own part in these matters reduced to nothing.
One feels no jealousy for a woman who may be sick, only for one who may have been pregnant. She had known that there was something wrong with this afternoon, even before that low voice on the telephone confirmed her unease. Yet even now his face was not tragic; perhaps a little more serious than usual, but not noticeably so.
‘Is she in hospital?’ she asked, pouring him more tea.
‘No, no, nothing like that. She’s been told to stay in bed for a bit. She’ll be fine.’
‘How long will you be away?’
‘Oh, a week, ten days. I don’t really know.’
‘You’ll let me know?’
‘Of course. I’ll give you a ring.’
He looked at her properly, saw her drawn face, and in a moment was by her side, his face buried in her hair.
‘Will you still want me?’ she managed.
‘More than ever,’ he said.
With a deep sigh, as if she had been crying for hours, she said, ‘Tell me about Mary.’
‘Oh, well, we go back a long way, Mary and I. It may be her age, of course. She’s older than I am. Forty. That’s a bit early, isn’t it?’
‘I’m sure it’s possible.’
She stroked his bronze hair, a gesture she only permitted herself occasionally. She no longer wanted to know about his life at home, away from her; that fantasy had been laid to rest. Now, if she wished, she could imagine it in all its naked intimacy. She had been like a child, dreaming of a happy family. The idea had seemed harmless, as if she were reading a children’s story. It was an image which only now convinced her that the players of this particular game were adults, herself unwillingly included.
‘Then I’ll wait to hear from you,’ she said, putting the cups in the sink.
‘Leave that. I’ll send Sigrid up tomorrow to put the place to rights, change the sheets and so on. You’ll be all right?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said lightly. ‘I’m always all right.’
‘You are, aren’t you?’ he said, his serious expression lifting. ‘How do you do it?’
‘Why did this happen?’
‘Why did what happen?’
‘Us.’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I only know that it did happen and I’m glad of it.’
‘You don’t perceive a conflict of interests?’
‘You think like a woman. Men don’t, on the whole.’
No word of love had been exchanged, yet she knew that the unspoken thought was there, that this was not the time to articulate it. If there were to be mutual confessions, of the kind that had never passed between them, then they could only take place if and when they came together again. Until that time she must remain within her role, burdensome as it now appeared to her.
‘Try to telephone me,’ she said. ‘Even before you come back.’
‘I will.’
‘Won’t they miss you at the office?’
‘Oh, they’re very understanding. My immediate boss is an old family friend. He’s always been fond of Mary.’
In his world, she thought, everything connected with everything else. Someone was always there to smooth one’s way, in an unearthly form of kinship. She only knew the agency as Max’s creation, heard of it only through Beatrice. Now it appeared that it was part of Simon’s extended family. Poor hand-kissing Max shrank immediately in importance, was probably tolerated as an amusing outsider who gave himself the airs of an impresario. With Max removed, no doubt by that same old family friend, the business could be conducted in the proper English manner, with full weight given to holidays, long lunches, visits to the tailor, and leaves of absence. She felt a pang of pity for Max, whom she had always disliked, and who thought he was retiring because of his age. He had probably been eased out, had thought of his age only when, bewildered, he had received so many concerned enquiries about his health, had consequently felt unwelcome, had rallied in order to invite everyone to a grand farewell party at the Festival Hall, and then disappeared. Beatrice had gone to that party looking resplendent, not noticeably stricken at the thought of losing Max, simply beguiled by the idea of the party. Beatrice too had her childish moments. It was even doubtful whether she genuinely missed him, whether anyone did. She spared a moment of fellow feeling for Max, like herself dispossessed. In his case there would be an ancient conspiracy theory in place, in her case merely an uncomfortable void. At this particular moment she thought her case the more extreme. Max had managed a resounding departure. That was not within her power. She knew that it would be wiser, as well as more elegant, to take her leave, rather than content herself with evenings by the telephone, as if she were a lovesick girl. She had been a lovesick girl too often twenty years ago. Even then she had never been the first to break it off.
‘I’ll run you home,’ he said, picking up his keys.
‘No, no, you get off. You’re busier than I am.’ She smiled at him. In that moment she felt only love and trust.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
She moved forward and kissed him on both cheeks. He put a hand round her head and kissed her hard on the lips.
‘Don’t forget me,’ she said.
‘As if.’ He kissed her again, and she knew that the affair – the love of her life – was not yet a thing of the past.
But this mood was not sustained once she was out on the street. She walked to the nearest rubbish bin and deposited her plastic bag. She felt, above all, bewilderment, as if without him she did not know how to proceed. Her map was all unmarked, her timetable quite empty. She had never been so aware that they were going to separate homes, that the whole width of darkening London was no longer a measure of distance but a symbolic enclave: beyond it she did not know the lie of the land. She hoped he would not drive too fast, wished, as never before, that she were permitted access to his every action. He had not looked noticeably altered from his former self when they had said goodbye, had looked durable, impatient, even slyly reminiscent, in a way that both comforted and shocked her. He would soon seek to be happy in his own way, whether she were there or not. She knew as much, as she seemed to know everything on this fateful day. His wife, for whom he clearly had the most faithful affection, would know this as well, but would be able to rely on what united them – equality, the sort of closeness she could not emulate. She saw them as part of the same family, in more ways than one, as if they were siblings, and incest the most natural thing in the world. She was, quite simply, an anomaly, blessedly independent, with no ties, and apparently always available.
She stopped to look at her reflection in the window of Marks and Spencer. She saw the sort of neat active outline that enabled her to pass unnoticed in a crowd. Shoppers eddied ar
ound her: doors slid open onto harassed women carrying several plastic bags, like the one she had carried earlier. She thought that she could still smell the asparagus quiche on her hands, but surely this was impossible? She went into the store, remembering that she had no food at home. Immediately she, who knew the place intimately, lost her bearings, found herself surrounded by children’s shoes and anoraks. Cold meat, she thought tiredly, salad, but could imagine herself eating neither.
In front of her, at the check-out, was a tall pretty girl in her late twenties. The thought came unbidden: she would suit him. Horrified, she wondered if she were now condemned to imagine his desires when she was not there to share them. What they enacted could be enacted by anyone; all that distinguished her from other partners was her silence, her lack of importunity. She did not see this as an advantage. At the end of the day she could not make that telephone call, become incorporated into his world. Exhausted now, she imagined herself as an old lady, in a room somewhere, with no visitors. In that children’s book she had imagined herself reading, all endings were happy endings, and only the wicked received their just desserts. She knew that this was not a fate reserved for the wicked, knew too that she was not really a wicked woman, but one whose instincts made her want to surrender her isolation, and to share what wholeness she still possessed.
How had she, a not unintelligent woman in the late twentieth century, when women were supposed to know everything, come to this? But her part was clear; she was committed. She would manage, somehow; there was no sense in which she would be found wanting. She would go home, have a hot bath, wash her hair. And then she would go to bed, and begin her period of waiting. And no one but herself would know what it cost.
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